Queen Hereafter Page 6

  Hearing footsteps, Margaret turned to see a man in the doorway who wore a belted, hooded white tunic. His head was balding in front, his dark hair long behind, and a wooden cross on a string hung from his rope belt. Margaret stood quickly, as did Finola, while the dogs whumped their tails on the floor as if recognizing a friend.

  He nodded to Margaret and spoke to Finola in rapid Gaelic. “Ah, Lady Margaret! Welcome,” he then said in English. “I am grateful that you and your family were spared from the sea. I am Brother Micheil. I oversee this parish.” He bobbed his head and she saw that the front of his scalp was shaved from ear to ear above the forehead.

  “Brother, may I ask to which order you belong? I am familiar with the Benedictines.”

  “I am a monk of the Céli Dé, but most call us the Culdees.”

  “Ah. I have heard of them but know little about their ways.”

  “We are of the Celtic church, which was founded in Ireland long ago and celebrated in Scotland as well.”

  Margaret concealed her surprise. She had learned from the Benedictine priests that Irish monks were radical sorts who mixed pagan practices with religious rites. “I did not expect to find Culdees in the royal seat of Scotland,” she said.

  “We are all children of God. Heartfelt prayers always reach heaven.”

  “Indeed,” she said. “Brother, do your parishioners understand Latin?” She thought of Finola.

  “Most do not, lady,” he admitted. “Parishes in Scotland are widespread—we cannot teach the people so easily here.”

  “Rome only approves prayers spoken in Latin. Do you not worry about the souls of your parishioners?”

  “The blessed Columba taught prayers in Gaelic to his flock centuries ago. Was he wrong?” He spoke it like a challenge.

  “I know of Columba from a manuscript in the king’s library at Winchester, copied from a work of Adomnán of Ireland,” she explained. “I am also aware that Rome has tried over time to help the Irish and Scottish church understand its proper laws.”

  “We are content with our own,” Micheil said, smiling. “While you are here, you may like to learn more about Scotland. We have many holy places here that may comfort your doubts, lady, including an important pilgrimage route. I would be happy to escort you or arrange visits to some of our holy sites. How long will you stay?”

  “I am not certain.” She wondered herself. Thanking him for his offer, she departed with Finola to walk back through the forested glen. The dogs rushed ahead, loping up the hillside toward the tower.

  Pausing beside the stream to admire a cascade of small waterfalls, Margaret sat upon a large boulder to rest, taking in the rare and lovely peacefulness of that place. Birdsong and rushing water, the scent of pine, the cool mist and translucent, filtering sunlight—the little glen was perhaps the most beautiful place she had ever seen, except that it was in Scotland, where she did not want to be.

  Chapter Four

  Eva

  I will not yield

  To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth

  A sweet blur of memory: I a small girl, watching my mother weaving at her loom while she sang to the shuttle’s rhythm. Her dark hair flowed like a raven’s wing, and she smiled when I sang with her. In the evenings, she would play her harp for the company gathered in her father’s hall. Her clear voice and her music fascinated me. From early days, I wanted to become a harper, and fate and heaven arranged that for me—along with other matters more surprising.

  I still have my mother’s harp, all carved wood and metal strings, and I have two more of my own, often played. But the wood and strings of my mother’s harp retain her gentleness and emanate her songs, and touching them brings back to me the memories of my childhood.

  My mother was named Leven for the loch near her birthplace, where she met my father when he visited Fife. I knew he was royal, and I met him for the first time just before his death. Because of her, my first eight years were spent in Fife; because of him, the rest in Moray. I loved both places dearly.

  Macduff, the mormaer of Fife, was a traitorous brute to some, but to me an indulgent grandfather. I was born at Abernethy fortress, his keep, where my young and unmarried mother kept my father’s name a secret from her father as long as she could; by the time he got the truth from her, he already loved me, and agreed to my protection and education due to my royal blood. When I was little, a priest tutored me in Latin and Gaelic, mathematics and theology. From a Saxon maid in our household I learned capable English, and in thanks, my grandfather gave her a plot of land and a husband.

  Leven taught me to embroider, spin, and weave—though the latter was the work of common women, my mother loved its rhythms and results—and she taught me the melodies of loom and spindle, of smooring the hearth and rocking the cradle. I inherited her slight form and her shining black hair, along with her clear voice and love of music. She said I had my father’s eyes and smile and, she said, the boldness of a kinswoman I did not know. My grandfather said it was a relief that I combined the best of them; the worst of them was not explained.

  My mother died of fever when I was seven, and my grandfather passed of the same soon after. His brother Kenneth became mormaer in the region next, and kept me in his Fife household for a while, wondering what to do with me. There I met my father at last—a fair and slender young man whose guard carried the banner of the king: himself. Startled to learn that, I only believed it once I saw his eyes, a changeable blue like mine, and his dimpled smile, my own.

  “I am told you sing well, Eva,” the somber young king said when we met.

  “I do.” Eight years old, I was truthful by nature.

  “Will you sing for me?”

  I did, standing before him at my uncle’s table. King Lulach wept a little and kissed me, and when he departed next day, he left gold coins for my care, along with a ring of silver and crystal for me, and a promise to bring me north to live with him and our Moray kin at his court at Elgin. I was eager, for I would be a princess and would have a family—a father, a stepmother, two half siblings, a grandmother, and cousins—and a home where I truly belonged.

  Shortly after his visit to us in Fife, Lulach was killed. We heard this was by done by order of King Malcolm, who ruled in southern Scotland after defeating Macbeth; war had split Scotland, and Lulach held the northern region of Moray and other northern regions that did not support Malcolm. Having scarcely met my father, I now mourned him—the idea of him, I suppose, rather than a father I had known. Shortly after, my Fife uncle told me that the south was no good place for me; I was too young, he said, to know how dangerous it was to be daughter to a dead king. Then he sent me by escort to live with my northern kinfolk.

  Lady Gruadh, my Moray grandmother, was a tall, cheekboned beauty, youthful still despite years and strife. Her hair gleamed pale copper, and her eyes were silver-blue. She had been a warrior-queen beside Macbeth, and she had elegance and strength; she had the loyalty of the northerners, too. I was in awe of her—she was vibrant and fierce in her devotion to kin and land.

  Gruadh acted as regent for my half brother, Nechtan, who trained at swords but preferred books and studying with priests. My half sister, Ailsa, went to live with cousins to be educated and readied for a good match one day. Quiet Nechtan stayed in Moray as its nominal mormaer; traditionally the leaders of that rich and vast province were like kings in the north. I learned quickly that the high kings of Scotland always tread carefully where Moray is concerned.

  Now it is years later and I am grown, and Gruadh is still regarded as a rebel by King Malcolm. He sends occasional messages to cajole or threaten her to behave. She is hospitable to his messengers, and delights in crafting rude replies to the king, despite the pleas of her council.

  With her gift of Da Shelladh—“the two sights,” or The Sight—my grandmother can gaze into flames or water’s sheen and see what is unknown and what will come. She warned her Moray council that King Malcolm wil
l bring even more change to Scotland in future, and told them to beware. Though I lack her knowledge of magic, I learned boldness as well as charm from her. Recognizing my interest in music, she arranged for me to be trained by a bard who had once served Macbeth. For that in particular, I am endless grateful.

  And so I was schooled in the songs and tales of the Irish and Scottish bardic traditions, learning them by old methods and diligence. A bard must know a thousand songs, melodies, and tales—one for each day of the year, and more than that to fill rainy afternoons and winter evenings. Someday I might attain the mastery of a filidh, a poet-bard, though that needs twelve years of study. Or I could declare myself a harper and court singer, a status I have attained already.

  Bard-craft is my joy and calling, and I hunger to know more of that as well as of the greater world. My grandmother would like to keep me in Moray, close and safe, where I have a right as bard and princess to a seat on that council. But life has more for me somewhere. I feel it so.

  “IN THE SOUTH, Malcolm struts and rules and calls me witch, and now he wants a favor!” Lady Gruadh paced the floor, clasping the folded page with the king’s latest missive. Her hand shook a little as she felt, and hid, her near panic. “He orders Eva to act as a harper in his court because he has guests. What do I care about that? She might never return from that place.”

  “If she went to court for a few weeks, her visit could be useful to us,” Ruari mac Fergus said quietly. “She could be the eyes and ears of Moray in the south.” He leaned his hip against a table, arms folded, watching as Gruadh walked the length of the hall and back again with a swirl of skirts.

  “I will not allow it,” she said bluntly. “Witch, I am told he calls me in private, though here he properly writes ‘Lady of Elgin’!” She brandished the page. “Most call me Lady of the North now.” Secretly she liked that term. “I will not stand for ‘witch’ from anyone, especially—”

  “You are no witch, Rue. Go easy,” he added.

  “Malcolm Ceann Mór, Big Head, wants our girl-bard for her talent and renown.”

  “The letter is polite. I think he fears you a little.” Ruari smiled.

  “So he should.” She handed the page to Ruari. “I do control Moray as regent mormaer for my grandson.” She felt calmer. Ruari, once a member of her father’s guard and later head of Macbeth’s guard, was not only her advisor but her lover now. His steady, imperturbable manner—and private tenderness—soothed her ire. “Malcolm cannot ignore the importance of this vast province with all its resources and seaports.”

  “And its thousands of warriors not keen on Malcolm,” Ruari added with a warrior’s spark in his hazel eyes. He had fostered the resistance that still survived in Moray. “The king never knows what we are thinking or doing up here in the north.”

  “May that uncertainty keep him awake at night.” Gruadh folded her arms.

  “Lately they say he has a new distraction—the fugitive Saxon royal family, the prince and his pretty sisters and others, who fled the Normans over the North Sea only to be shipwrecked on a beach in Fife. Malcolm gives them sanctuary, no doubt to suit his own ends.”

  “But what does he want? We have heard the reports of William’s attacks in northern England, the loss of Danish support, the hunt for the Saxon royals. And now Canmore goes into Northumbria to thrash the poor Saxons further, even with the Aethelings supping at his own table. Malcolm has always been a brute. Macbeth would never—”

  “We cannot know what he would have done to prevent the Normans from gaining Scotland,” Ruari pointed out. “Malcolm will protect his borders, yet he also hungers to expand his territory in Northumbria. He still means to reclaim his lands there.”

  “Why shelter the Saxon royalty in his court? That only invites Norman wrath.” Gruadh shook her head. “Malcolm soaks up Sassenach ways and diminishes the Celtic traditions that thrived eons before him, back to the ancestors he and I have in common. And now he harbors a Saxon prince to taunt a Norman king. This is too much risk for Scotland.”

  “If he lends the Saxon prince his military support against William, thinking to tip the balance and flush the Normans out of the north, it will never happen.”

  “Once again Malcolm backs the losing cause,” Gruadh murmured. “It would be nearly impossible to drive the Normans out now.”

  “True, but with the young Saxon royalty in his debt, his lands and importance could increase. Perhaps he wants a wife in one of those virgin princesses hiding in his household.”

  “Hah! Saxon blood in Malcolm’s heirs would dilute the Scottish blood of generations!”

  “More so than the Viking and Irish blood already in the line?” Ruari nearly smiled. “Besides, Malcolm has needed a queen since Ingebjorg’s death.”

  “She wasted away in that southern priory,” Gruadh said. “Her gentle spirit was never suited to the south, or to be Malcolm’s queen. That sweet girl should have stayed here as Lulach’s widow, mother to his children who needed her. She could have married again, could have—”

  “Malcolm claimed victor’s rights, just as Macbeth did when he wed you. It is that simple.”

  She caught her breath at the reminder. Years ago, tragedy had finally led to contentment, and then … but she would not think on it. “What has become of the two little sons he got upon Inga? Fostered out already, they say, though they are so young!”

  “Your bitterness would best you if not for your tender mother’s heart,” Ruari murmured. He leaned forward until his shoulder touched hers. She tilted toward him a little. “Forget what is past, Rue. See what has been gained in your life. You have power and respect in Moray, worthy grandchildren, and my unworthy heart if you want it. Let all that change you for the better. Else you will always be snappish as an old hawk,” he said wryly.

  She sucked in a breath. “Let me linger with my old joys and grievances. When I am ready, I will have done.” She paused. “I thought you liked hawks.”

  “I do.” He lifted a brow.

  “I do have power and responsibilities here until Nechtan is old enough to take over,” she agreed. “And you,” she said, resting a hand on his arm, “you are my strength.”

  “Many in the north will support you for as long as you care to rule here,” he murmured.

  “My grandson is of an age with that Saxon princeling, not yet a blooded warrior. His sister will make a good marriage someday, and their half sister …” She sighed. “Eva is a tricky treasure to protect.”

  Trapped emotions rose in her chest, beating wings to be free. She turned away to pace the room again, folding her arms tight over her chest. Sometimes she felt a little wise, but today she felt fearful. Malcolm might never let her or her family be.

  She thought of the spring day that Drostan, abbot of Loch Leven in Fife, had brought Eva north to Elgin fortress. He had lifted the child down from the horse and Gruadh had led her inside to give her some soup. When the little fledgling had finished, she had smiled, mouth dimpling at one corner. Glimpsing Lulach there in her face, Rue was lost to sudden love. The girl’s royal blood was unmistakable—and she was enchanting.

  A quicksilver child, Eva wore her grandmother’s patience brittle, but jigged and giggled her way into all hearts at Elgin. She showed her paternal grandfather’s gifts too: Lulach’s father, Gruadh’s first husband, Gilcomgan, had been a warrior who should have been a bard. His gifts lived on in his granddaughter.

  Ailsa was quiet and pretty, Nechtan sober and studious, and their grandmother loved them deeply. But Eva, older than her half siblings, was like sunlight dissolving shadows, luring her grandmother back from the edge of grief that year, scarcely a twelvemonth after the deaths of Macbeth and then Lulach.

  Dermot, the seanchaidh who had entertained so often at Macbeth’s court, returned to Elgin one winter and, sensing the girl’s natural talent for singing and harp playing, offered to stay and teach her. Her little fingers were deft and nimble on the harp strings, and her voice was sweet and strong, even so young. Eva
had trained for years with Dermot, entertaining those at Elgin with her gifts. At eighteen, she was now a lovely creature with a shining talent. Visitors came away from Elgin’s hall praising the young female bard of the Moray court, a rarity for her gender in that calling, as well as for her uncommon beauty and skillful music.

  Gruadh sighed and returned to Ruari, who waited silent and patiently. He was her opposite in some ways and her blessed match in so many others, though she had never told him so. He knew, she felt sure of that. He was strong, brown, and as sturdy as a rock. She needed him. As she approached, he stretched out his hand to her and she took it.

  “Some say that Eva, the girl-bard of Moray, plays music with the power to enchant,” she said. Ruari inclined his head, listening, waiting. “Not a rumor to encourage, that, though there may be some truth to it.”

  “So you will send her to court after all?”

  “Perhaps. We can delay through the winter.” She looked down at the folded letter again. “Eva is young for that fox’s den, but she is strong and clever, and as you say, she could be a help to us there. Let Malcolm wait until spring to please his guests. Let us see what else he offers for the privilege of Eva’s music.”

  “Do not think to trust him,” Ruari reminded her.

  “Only when he was a pup, but after that—never. Ruari, whether or not we obey this order from Malcolm, I want you to send word to the men of Moray to be on guard for a summons from us, should we need their support in arms and might.”

  He looked at her steadily. “If the Saxon rebellion fails, and Malcolm fails, too, and if the Normans come up into Scotland—we may have to marshal our forces and pull away from lower Scotland.”

  “Just so,” she said quietly. “The day may come when my grandson will rule the north while another king rules in the south. Macbeth did that for a time—but Malcolm was not content and made sure of his death.” She sighed.